Heaven Beside You
by Indigo X
Summary: TNA 'Fic. When Samoa Joe brutalizes Christopher Daniels to the point of hospitalization, AJ decides to take matters into his own hands... but what does that mean for Christopher and AJ's rivalry? Rated T for violence and language. May or may not go slashy
1. Broken Angel

Author Notes: Hoo! How long's it been since I've written one of these? TNA'fic. Inspired by events at Sunday's 'Genesis' PPV. Chris Daniels, Samoa Joe, and AJ Styles, along with anybody else that might show up, are all © themselves and TNA Wrestling. Hopefully updated weekly, as the Joe/AJ/Daniels storyline unfolds. Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Broken Angel

(Genesis.)

"We won!"

Christopher Daniels' dark eyes were alight, shining in that way they did every time he picked up a win. There could be no doubt about it, after all… he was used to winning, he relished winning… he loved winning every bit as much as he hated losing. And man… the Fallen Angel absolutely LOATHED losing. But winning… every match he won proved that he was every bit as good as he said he was. Every bit as glorious, as talented… every bit better than golden boy AJ, that's for sure.

However… Daniels' jubilation wasn't exactly shared by his tag partner.

"…it was my pin."

Samoa Joe was a big fellow. Big, agile, knowledged in enough moves and holds to make anybody scream in agony. He barely spoke. And he couldn't stand skinny little glory-hog egomaniacs who talked too much. His own dark eyes stared coldly at the man in front of him, in such a way that even made Daniels nervous. The Fallen Angel held his fists out to tap knuckles, a gesture of goodwill to the dangerous Samoan.

Joe smiled. Tapped.

And then the brutality began.

-------------------

"Oh, my…"

He had no place there. It wasn't any of his business. If anything, one would think he'd grin at seeing his long-time rival get comeuppance for his constant bragging and boasting and glory-hogging. But when he got to the mouth of the tunnel, all AJ Styles could do was look on in shock and horror.

Christopher Daniels lay in the ring, awash in his own blood. Unmoving, eyes closed. Silent. Daniels was NEVER silent. Joe stood nearby, a disturbingly emotionless expression on his face, both his peanut-butter skin and the white towel around his neck liberally splashed with the Fallen Angel's red blood. The Samoan shrugged, rolled his shoulders, and walked up the ramp, pausing only a moment to glance at the Phenomenal One before sauntering to the back.

AJ couldn't move, the southerner's brain trying desperately to jump to some logic, some conclusion. Decide what to think of all this. Part of him wanted to run to his rival's side, but something wouldn't let him. All he could do was look on as Daniels was lifted, still unconscious, onto the stretcher, wheeled past him, and taken away.

Head down, he followed after.

------------------

"…totally uncalled for."

AJ had to be watching the tape for about the twentieth time. Kicks. Chairshots. Daniels bleeding, unable to get in a move to defend himself. Muscle Buster. Singlehandedly chasing off security. Muscle Buster on the damn chair. Joe finally having enough… looking like everything he'd just done was no sweat. Nothing at all. Walking out, past him, smeared in blood.

He had to admit it. Like Daniels or not, AJ respected his rival immensely, and was worried. Very worried. He'd won his match, of course, but for some reason… it didn't seem to register. Victories over upstart Canadians took a backseat to the horror he'd witnessed that night.

He remembered the words he'd told Shane Douglas… the code had been broken tonight. It may be quite possibly a suicidal decision, but there was nothing more he could do. Joe was going to have to be dealt with, and as champion, it was AJ's responsibility.

It would have to wait, though. He had to take care of something first.

Hopping into his car, AJ Styles heads for Orlando General.


	2. Angel Blood

Chapter 2: Angel's Blood

"...ow..."

It was a soft sound, somewhere between a murmur and a grumble, accompanied by the slightest, pained hint of movement by the slight-ish man in the bed. He had lain there for quite some time, wafting in and out of consciousness, still as a stone when out but barely coherent or responsive when awake. Now, however, it seems he stirs for real for the first time.

Of course, his first utterance had to be some sort of complaint.

Forgetting for a moment, he tries to rise like nothing happened and is ricocheted back down almost instantly by a sharp wave of pain in his head, pain that almost made him scream aloud. What... where...

White. Too much white. Hospital white. Hospital...

"...oh, yeah."

It all comes back to him. Genesis. Joe. Elimination X. Victory. A loss of temper. The muscle busters... the Ole Kicks... pain... blood...

...blackness...

"...hey, b'careful, Daniels!"

...styles... Wait a second... Styles?

The Fallen Angel turns his head over... and blinks a few times. Indeed, sitting at his bedside, a weary look on his face as if he hadn't slept well for nights, was the very last person he'd ever expect to be here with him.

AJ grins gently, the X Division champ seeming to sigh in a great deal of relief.

"...aw, well... leas' you're awake now..."

"Kudos to you, Styles, bravo. What the blue bleeding hell are you doing here...?"

His voice is haggard and weary, but no less annoyed than it usually is when AJ is somehow involved.

"...I... I came to see you. What Joe did, it was... it was wrong, an'..."

"Oh. Oh, I see." Daniels snickers, a mildly venomous look in his eyes. "Big Bad Samoan beats up the poor little angel-man, and the Golden Boy descends heroically from his little X-Division Olympus to right the greivous wrong, everyone cheers, the end. Give me a break, Styles. You love playing hero. As if everyone dosen't love you already."

"...'s not like that..."

"What IS it like then, Styles?"

"Y... y'know what, fine. You wanna be an ungrateful lil' man, you go right on ahead. Doesn' change th' fact that what Joe did wasn' right, an' I'm gonna make him pay for it. I know th' concept's beyond you, but not all of us was born without a goddamned conscience."

Sapphire blues flashing, AJ stands up, his back cricking after being in one position for so long. The Phenominal One ignores the jab of pain.

"I don' know why I even waited for your proud ass t' wake up all this time."

Jamming his hands into his hoodie pocket, AJ storms out, leaving Daniels blinking after him. He wasn't used to the Phenominal One having an outright outburst like that... of course, perfect blue-eyed AJ couldn't have a temper, no way... but furthemore, he was a little taken aback at the fact that Styles'd said he'd been waiting for a while before he woke up.

Concern for your rivals. What a concept. It only made his head hurt more.

------------------------

(Impact, Nov. 19)

Samoa Joe had just completely destroyed Jerelle Clark. It had taken a nice set of refs and security to finally get the Submission Machine to break his signature Kochina Clutch, a rear naked choke that the TNA X-Division as a whole had yet to break, and now the slight young man was being attended to by the medics.

Joe just watches, the tiniest hint of a smile on his face as he plucks his towel off the ringpost and slings it back around his neck... a towel that had great rust-colored splotches standing out on its white terry cloth. The blood of Christopher Daniels, worn, as Don West remarked, like some sick trophy.

"HEY! Hey, Samoa Joe! Up here, big man!"

Joe turns to the jumbotron, eyeing coldly the image of AJ Styles, who seems to eye him back just as icily.

"Look, I know that you know, here in the X-division, we're not about weight limits, we're about no limits... but we've also got an unwritten code here. A code of competition and mutual respect that, well, dosen't seem to apply to you. What you did to Chris Daniels... DON'T TURN YOUR BACK ON ME, BIG MAN!"

Joe turns back around, folding his arms, looking irritated at the very concept of being lectured.

"Now, this dosen't happen often, but I, as the X-Division champion, am challenging YOU, Samoa Joe, to a match at Turning Point for the X Division title. You need t' be taught a lesson in respect, an' I'm more'n willing to be your teacher, big man. See you December 11th."

Joe just grins coldly before exiting the ring.

--------------------

Meanwhile, in Los Angeles, Christopher Daniels clicks his TV off, sighing deeply.

"The stupid kid's suicidal. And not even in a Jeff Hardy way... at least that day-glo moron's death will be quick."

Laying back into the pillows on his couch, the Fallen Angel stares at the ceiling and wonders if AJ's imminent doom amuses or worries him.


	3. Obstinate Angel

Chapter 3- Obstinate Angel.

(several hours after last week's Impact!)

AJ's just trying to shake the tension off. He can't seem to calm down, cool off... what WAS it about the cold Samoan that made him so angry? He's not normally like this... can't remember the last time he yelled like that, lost his temper... and now he had a match, for his title, against an unstoppable force. It shouldn't be any of his business. It shouldn't be...

...and suddenly, his cell phone rings, sending a sharp beeping tune thundering from his gym bag. Cursing softly, startled, he digs it out and answers...

"Y'ello?"

"Styles, you schmuck."

Hoofing out a sigh, AJ sinks down to the bench. Christopher Daniels, always one for a warm, polite greeting.

"What is it? Y'callin' all th'way from Cali just t' insult me?"

"You know damn well why I'm calling. What was that? You're not my mother, Styles, and you're not my girlfriend. I don't want your heroic little pansy-ass fighting my battles for me. I will NOT be a bridge to the next orgy of the free world telling AJ Styles how great and noble and wonderful and heroic he is, you understand me?"

AJ breathes in. Out.

"You know, Daniels, believe it or not, not EVERYTHING in this 'fed is about YOU."

He just catches a muted mutter of '...well, it should be.'

"Well, it's not, sorry to burst your bubble. I've made the challenge, an' I'm having this match whether you like it or not, y'dig?"

"Fine! Just don't cry to me when that big Samoan brute breaks every single bone in your body. Look what he did to me! ME! And you think YOU have a chance? Oh, please."

"You wait an' see. I can' wait t' see the look on your face when I beat him. Bye, Daniels."

"Damn you, Styles, don't you dare hang up on m-"

Grinning slightly, AJ tosses the phone back into his bag, and heads out the door.

--------------------

(Impact, Nov. 26)

The crowd's been pumping hot throughout the entire match. Why shouldn't they? Both of the young men in the ring were favorites of the Orlando faithful... AJ Styles and his friend, the less-heralded but also talented Chris Sabin. And the way the two've been going at it, well, those who didn't know them wouldn't have ever guessed that they were on good terms.

AJ is enjoying himself, though... he knew that he and Chris worked well together, and this was just the thing to take his mind off the whole deal with...

"...aw, man..."

...the big Samoan who just appeared through the tunnel, watching with a stern expression as if sizing his future opponent up.

He's still wearing the bloody towel.

Sabin manages to slip in an offense, but leans in on a flurry of punches, hissing something across the plane of combat...

"Styles, forget about Joe an' fight me, dammit. Otherwise you're playin' his game."

Nodding, AJ breathes in, focuses... and after a bit more back and forth, cinches in and hits the Styles Clash.

AJ gets the win. Joe... looks positively disgusted.

The young phenom can't help but grin at the submissionist.

----------------------

(Los Angeles, California, around the same time)

Christopher Daniels peers in from the kitchen, cup of coffee in hand, just as AJ picks up the pin. The Fallen Angel just snickers slightly, shaking his head, then lightly whacking the side of it. Stupid concussion, he really wasn't digging these sudden dizzy spells...

"Heh... not bad, kid, but it's just Sabin. Sabin isn't Joe. You're still completely doomed."

He slides back into the kitchen for some sugar, when suddenly the dizziness amps itself up to Eleven, the world lurches forward, nonexistant sound roars in his ears, and...

"...oh... shit..."

...he feels the world buck, almost, like a wild bronco, and rush up to meet him.

The last thing he hears is the faraway shatter of a coffee mug before the world goes pitch black and silent.


	4. Crashing Angel

(Author Note- Sorry for falling behind- things've been pretty hectic on my end. To make up for it, please enjoy not one, but TWO chapters today- the Dec. 3 Impact, and Turning Point. (Nothing really interesting happened on the Dec. 8 one, so might's well skip to the good part. hee)))

Chapter 4: Crashing Angel

(about 15 minutes later)

"…ugh…"

The first conscious thought that weakly echoes through the mind of Christopher Daniels as he gradually stirs from his blackout is really a simple one. Two little words, softly but firmly resonating through his mind, that sum up the situation quite neatly.

…_this sucks._

As he fully comes to, gingerly picking himself up off the white linoleum kitchen floor where he'd awoke amongst shards of his favorite mug and a large puddle of cold coffee, he looks up at the clock. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes, completely lost. Cursing under his breath, he removes his coffee-soaked shirt and sets to picking up the pieces of shattered porcelain

Yes, indeed, he thinks bitterly, this certainly does suck. A perfectly good shirt and his favorite mug, ruined. A dull but throbbing headache, a few small cuts from where shattered porcelain hit his skin. Fifteen minutes spent unconscious…

…and this was the third time this had happened since he'd come home. The blackouts, indeed, were the worst of the recurring symptoms of the major concussion he'd sustained. They went quite nicely with the dizzy spells and the occasional handful of minutes that just vanished into thin air.

The meds had made it very plain to him. There was no way he was wrestling again as long as the aftereffects of the concussion lingered, and at this rate, that'd be a while.

If there's one thing Christopher Daniels isn't, it's a patient man.

Dumping the broken mug in the trash, he starts cleaning up the coffee puddle with a sigh. He wasn't a man of many true loves, but wrestling was one of them. Being forced away from it like this… sidelined, laid up, not even being allowed his own vengeance against the fucker who did this to him… it not only made him furious, it made him feel pretty damn useless. What good was he to anybody like this?

Sighing again, Daniels tosses the used paper towels in the trash on top of the broken porcelain, tosses his shirt in the laundry basket, and goes to run himself a hot bath. Might make him feel better, he thinks, and at this point he could do with a good deal of feeling better.

---------------------

(a week later- Impact, December 3rd)

It was supposed to be an uneventful night, AJ Styles thinks in retrospect.

He wasn't carded for anything. He'd come to watch his friends perform. To keep an eye on the Joe situation. That's all.

He'd just been minding his own business.

As the show wound to an end, he'd headed backstage to see about meeting some of the guys afterward for a late supper, maybe some drinks and a game, typical stuff.

And not a minute after he'd stepped back there, he found himself being punched, and then kneed and kicked in the face by about eight million pounds of perpetually ticked-off Samoan, which felt about the same to AJ as being repeatedly kicked by a mule. He just couldn't get in any offense- he was pinned between a footlocker and a neverending barrage of kicks.

Finally, Joe had grabbed him by the throat, AJ feeling the prickle of terry cloth made stiff by dried blood.

And then came the voice. Not yelling, but a growl of sharp disdain the likes of which AJ'd never heard before.

"I DON'T respect your code."

And with one more slam for good measure, Joe had stormed off, leaving AJ here laying on the cold concrete, battered and bruised.

He can hear the medics approaching, and he hopes they have some hefty painkillers on them. Coughing sharply, a trickle of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, he hoarsely mumbles to himself.

"…this sucks."


	5. Avenging Angel

((Author Notes: Supersized chapter! But hey... it's a PPV.))

Chapter 5: Avenging Angel

(a few days afterward)

"Mrrrello…"

It's not really a word by technical standards, but when one is awoken from a rather deep and pleasant nap by a ringing telephone, you should expect one to be neither pleasant nor coherent. By those standards, plus a rather obvious Southern accent, it's probably very hard to understand what AJ meant by the inhuman, Wookie-like noise he uttered into the receiver.

"…what?"

"Dnnnlz? Whadddy'wan."

"WHAT? Christ, Styles, don't tell me you got booted in the head a few times and forgot how to speak English, sheesh…"

"Y'wommmeup."

A heavy sigh from the other end. Christopher thinks he can decipher what in the world AJ's on about now… still, it wasn't any excuse for the younger man to talk like a bear with a mouthful of peanut butter. If he was sleepy still, it was his own fault for answering the phone.

"Then splash some cold water on your face, numbskull. Jeez, it's past noon, I've got a pretty serious head injury, and I've been up since eight in the morning. What would people think if they knew the messianic AJ Styles slept in past noon like a common slob?"

"Phuucue."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. Just… let me know when you're coherent. At this point, I'd be better off trying to converse with Abyss, for crying out loud."

Setting the phone aside, AJ kicks the sheets off the bed and lurches toward the bathroom like a zombie creature just rose from the grave. Dammit, he was still sore all over… the swelling on his face'd gone down a bit, thank Heaven for small miracles, but the bruising was still evident on his face and chest.

After taking a moment to do what most people do in their bathrooms after first waking up and splashing some water on his face, AJ sits back down on the bed, picking the phone back up.

"Daniels, you still there?"

"Yeah. Was about to hang up, though. You took long enough."

"Just my luck I caught you." No, there wasn't any sarcasm in that statement… "What do you want, or are y'just doin' your best to drive me out-a my skull long distance?"

"Joe. I suppose now there's no talking you out of that match. On the other hand, now you know what I'm talking about. And that, kid, that little pummeling? That's just for starters. If I were you, I'd ask one of the ROH kids for some backtapes to review as well as studying what footage our archives have of him. There's only a few days 'till Turning Point, and if you're not ready, he WILL kill you."

AJ rolls the suggestion around in his head. Not a bad idea… he'd see if Aries could scrounge him up anything. But…

"…wait a sec, why're you givin' me advice? I thought you didn' want me to beat Joe. The whole rant 'bout me playin' hero-boy, that thing."

A sigh from the other end.

"Styles, at this point, I'm not EXPECTING you to beat Samoa Joe. I'm just giving you this advice so you don't DIE. Destroying you is _my_ job, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let that tub of very ill-tempered lard take THAT from me, too. You read me?"

"Yeah. Loud an' clear. Glad t' see your principles're still intact."

"Right. Go study those tapes. And for the love of God, quit sleeping in. You're gonna need every waking moment for training time if you want to survive. 'Bye, Styles."

Daniels hangs up. AJ looks at the receiver, shaking his head with a slight snicker.

"Thought you said you weren't my mother."

---------------------------------

(Los Angeles, a few minutes later)

The phone rings softly in Daniels' ear as he waits for the other end to pick up. He could get into big trouble for this, he knows that… he was given very explicit advice, and would probably get yelled at for not following it. Even if not, it wasn't a smart move.

Still, it was something he felt he had to do.

"…hello? Yes… this is Christopher Daniels. I need to see about a flight to Orlando… yes. The eleventh…"

------------------------------------

(Turning Point)

He can see Joe's eyes from here. Black, flashing eyes, filled with purposeless hate and the urge to destroy. His tape gauntlets bear the letters 'AJ'. The bloody towel is still around his neck.

AJ adjusts the belt on his shoulder. This was for the honor of his title. Of the honor of his division. For all the fans, and the principles the Samoan had spat on.

And, he grudgingly admitted to himself, maybe a small part of it… WAS for Christopher Daniels.

His music hits.

_Everyday of my life, I let the inside show from the outside…I do my best to pass the test, and show respect to the other guy…_

That's what it's all about, isn't it?

Let's go.

…_my head's in the clouds and a smile's on my face, I am alive and I'll say it this way…_

…_you are, you are, I am I am…_

----------------------------------------

(Studio 21 parking lot and gaining…)

"Goddamn flight delays! Don't they know that some people have to BE places? I swear, when I am king, all delayed flights will be punishable by immediate execution…"

He can hear the cheers from here. Oh, damnit, the match must've already started… breaking into an even faster run, Daniels heads for the nearest monitor… much to the surprise of the small group that was already huddled around it.

"Hey! Daniels, I thought you were…"

"Oh, nevermind that now, you great feeb! Give over, let me see…"

Apparently he hadn't missed much, at least…

_Alright, kid, let's see what you can do. C'mon, earn that annoyingly overbearing nickname of yours…_

------------------------------------------

(Arena)

SLAM.

Oh, that did NOT tickle.

Already sore from an inhuman amount of chops and now a throbbing head from a polite introduction to the guardrail, AJ tries to get up but is kicked back down like a dog, grabbed, dragged into the ring and pounded on more… able to wriggle in just a handful of offense here and there…

_this is hopeless, he's unbeatable…_

What? Where did he get off thinking like that OW… Oh, wonderful…

Coughing, AJ struggles just to get a few breaths as Joe comes at him again… shot to the stomach, back slammed into the ringpost, headlock…

_no_

Frantically, AJ starts throwing elbows, trying desperately to power out. It works, but…

POW

…knee shot to the head. This sucks…

--------------------------------------------

(Backstage)

"DAMN YOU!"

Everybody backs up a little. Daniels is getting That Look. Lip quivering, jaw and fists clenched, he looks as if his eyes could burn a hole in the monitor.

"AJ Styles, you are BETTER than this sack of shit! This is totally and completely pathetic, and totally and completely unacceptable! All I said to do was survive… SURVIVE, you overrated moron, can't you even do that right? Now GET UP!"

---------------------------------------------

(Arena)

Joe is smiling. Looking down at the fallen champion with an almost hungry look. Lunging in to finish AJ off…

_…GET UP!_

…and is met with a vicious Pele.

Oh, that's it. The sudden screaming thought in his head brought with it a strange second wind… AJ is sick of getting kicked around. Time to stop being intimidated, and start being serious…

…and he begins to fly. Leapfrog. Shooting star, flying punch, aerial DDT…

One… Two…

…no go. Shit. Joe's mad now… REAL mad. Snap scoop slam.

One… Two…

…none for you either, big boy. Snarling… SNARLING… AJ looks up, mouth running blood.

"You wanna play with me, big man? LET'S PLAY!"

And the duel of chops, kicks, and punches begins.

----------------------------------------

(Backstage)

"Oh, holy shit…"

"He's snapped, AJ's finally lost it…"

"Somebody's gotta stop them before they kill each other!"

"WILL YOU PEOPLE SHUT UP?"

Daniels eyes the others sharply. Sheesh, you'd think they'd never seen a guy fired up before. Honestly.

_That's it, that's better… come on now…fight! _

_--------------------------------------------_

(Arena)

Powerbomb from AJ.

Sharp clothesline back from Joe.

_I'm not giving in to you._

_I'm not giving in to you, either._

AJ jumps up, wipes a splash of blood from his mouth. Joe looks back, with an expression of utter and total astonishment.

"…why the hell won't you just DIE?"

"…because it's not my day. Now bring it, big man."

Choke. Headbutts. Pele counter.

They eye each other. NOW.

Joe throws his Muscle Buster. AJ, his Styles Clash. Almost at the same time, and both go crashing down…

------------------------------------------

(Backstage)

And Daniels and the others watch with held breath…

-------------------------------------------

(Arena)

…as AJ rolled Joe up in a pin…

_Yes… YES…_

…which was reversed at the last minute. AJ is trapped in the Kochina Clutch… he wriggles, fights…

"…tap out, boy…"

"…go… to… hell…"

_no…_

Everything goes black.

One, Two… Three.

It's over.

But Joe isn't satisfied. He'd won AJ's title, but… he'd also been embarrassed in front of all those who saw him as invincible. NOBODY embarrassed Samoa Joe. The boy would have to be taught a severe lesson…

And feigning respect as AJ came to, Joe raised the ex-champion's arm… and levels him with his new prize. Grinning madly, Joe looks down at AJ.

"History repeating, no? Be sure to say hi to Chris Daniels for me…"

BAM!

"Hey, asshole! Why don't you tell me yourself?"

Black looks up. Meets black.

"You…"

"Daniels…?"

Through hazy vision, AJ still can't believe his eyes…

…and when the angry Samoan knocks the Fallen Angel once more on his head, he wishes his eyes were lying.

A whirl of security, another whirl of medics.

One new champ is escorted away, and two rivals both lay half-conscious in his wake.


End file.
